


Let's just forget about this

by MADR1D1SMO



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Frenemies, Gen, M/M, be patient with me, but i just wanted to write something fun, i'm working on the spring fling assignment, spain nt, this gets kinda crack-ish toward the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 22:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10448985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MADR1D1SMO/pseuds/MADR1D1SMO
Summary: serard post-match drabble ft. morisco (kinda)





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was written in a rush at 1am after the spain-israel qualifier (which spain won 4-1) so...don’t expect too much from this heh

“Who do you think Lopetegui is going to put tomorrow?”

They’re both still doing their pre-training warm-ups; Ramos is in the middle of a series of quad stretches, while Geri is doing a forward bend exercise on the grass, so he actually has to stretch his neck all over to his left too look at him.

“I mean, the back.” Sergio goes on. “Nacho - our Nacho, not Monreal -, or maybe Martínez..”

He seems to be talking more to himself than to the other defender, but Geri still feels the need to comment. “I thought we’re gonna go with the usual Carvajal-Alba on the sides, me and you in the center.”

He can’t see Ramos’ reaction because he’s facing away from him, still stretching his right side, but he can hear what he says next. “Oh? I thought you were gonna rest tomorrow.”

Geri suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Leave it to Sergio Ramos to say something only an absolute dick would say, and still manage to make it sound like an innocent question. He knows he should just not answer, but he can’t help himself. “Oh yeah? And why is that?” In his defense, at least he’s not the one who started it this time.

Ramos pulls his right foot back down, replacing it with the left one to switch sides, and turns his head to face him. But instead of the daring, cheeky smirk Geri expected to see he’s met with an expression of genuine surprise. “I just- well, you’ve been playing non-stop lately, and Barcelona has a bunch of important games after international break.. Tomorrow’s isn’t a difficult one, we should be more worried about France. You know, Euro finalists, after all..” He raises his arm, pulling it behind his back, holding the elbow in place with his other hand. “And with the constant injuries and all.. Just thought you might want to rest tomorrow, I don’t know, man.”

And at this moment, Geri kind of wants to strangle him because this is  _ exactly  _ what Lucho told him before they all left for international break. But Lucho also told him to “not do extreme sports” because they were “dangerous” and Ramos once claimed that Mexico is in South America, so he won’t trust their opinion so easily. But then Ramos goes on and adds,

“Not that I mind that much if you’re gonna lose to Juventus, Sociedad, Sevilla and god knows who else but… You know, I’m just voicing my thoughts here.” This one is teasing but good humoured, and Geri lets out a light laugh in response.

“You’re quite invested in our schedule I see, huh?”

Ramos scoffs and looks away, scanning the busy pitch with his eyes. “Know thy enemy.” He mutters quietly with a serious expression on his face, making Geri laugh again, even louder this time.

“Oh, please! Speaking of the Champions, though,” He nudges the other Spaniard with his elbow, grinning mischievously. “A little bird told me...that you guys got Baye--”

Ramos groans loudly, not letting him finish his sentence. “If you say the B word around me before the end of April I’m not talking to you, not looking at you, not passing you, not-- I’ll just pretend you don’t exist.”

Geri hums thoughtfully, the grin not leaving his lips. “Sounds like my biggest dream.” He says, only half jokingly, and Ramos pushes his shoulder hard, making both of them lose their balance and fall down onto the wet grass.

 

-

 

The match starts out well, Israel is determined to not give up and do their best despite knowing that they’re playing a much stronger team, but they also don’t try playing dirty or cause unnecessary brawls, which is something Sergio likes in an opponent. Zahavi, the captain, is playing well, creating chances for the team and not letting him and Piqué relax for too long, but overall it’s a rather calm match, especially on their side of the pitch.

Dani and Jordi keep sticking closer to the rival’s side, helping the team out in the left and the right wing, while him and Piqué mostly stay guarding the penalty box, only joining the offence when there’s a corner or a free kick. Sergio kind of wants to participate more, to try and score, but he knows when not to push his luck to much, and moreover, their forwards seem to have everything under control, it would be better to save the energy for France.

Israel pulls off a pretty solid counter attack in the middle of the first half; the ball hits the post and goes wide but the players keep moving. There’s a series of sloppy movements and turns - nothing intentional, but Sergio still winces when one of the Israeli forwards collides with Piqué and the latter falls onto his back, hard, his excessive height making the fall even harsher.

Iniesta and a couple of other players immediately rush to his side, bending down to see if he’s okay. Sergio is left standing a few meters away from the event, watching Piqué throw an arm over his eyes and reach a hand to rub his knee. The Israeli player is standing a few steps away from him, biting on his lower lip, and Iniesta is looking at his teammate with a frown on his face. Sergio wonders if he should come over there and ask if he’s okay, but by the time he makes up his mind Piqué gets up, brushing the dirt off his shorts, and shakes his head at the questioning look Iniesta gives him.

Their eyes cross for a moment and Sergio makes a gesture with his hand in the air:  _ You alright? _

Piqué raises his hand and waves it dismissively:  _ I’m fine _ . His expression is a bit too serious for Sergio’s liking, though.

Piqué drops his hand and Sergio drops the subject.

The game goes on smoothly, Silva scores the first goal, and then Vitolo puts in another one in the late minutes of the first half. When he isn’t busy blocking shots from the rival team and passing the ball to their midfield, Sergio sends glances to his right, where Piqué is. He catches him touching his knee - the same from before - way too many times for it to be accidental.

One part of Sergio wants to roll his eyes until he can see the back of his head and another part of him wants to run over and tackle Piqué so hard he’s  _ forced _ to come off the pitch. He does neither, both would be rather difficult to explain to the press later, one more than the other.

The ref blows the half-time whistle and the players head toward the tunnel, some discussing how the match went so far, some waving to the fans.

Lopetegui doesn’t talk long - there isn’t much to say anyway, they’re in a good place. Sergio splashes cold water on his face and heads back to the dressing room. The tank top he’s wearing under his jersey is completely soaked with sweat, so he pulls both off and starts searching for an unworn tank top amongst the items in his duffel bag. Just as he’s about to put it on his eye catches Piqué on the bench next to his. His hand is on the goddamn knee again, and he pulls it away quickly the moment he catches him looking, but it doesn’t manage to escape Sergio’s gaze.

“You know,” He says casually, with a not-that-i-care kind of shrug. “We’re two goals up, you can ask him to sub you off now.” It sounds way too nice to his ear so he adds quickly. “I’ll be fine by myself.”

Piqué snorts. He shakes his head with an amused smile on his lips, eyes locked on the floor, and then turns his head to look at him. “Mind your own business,  _ Ramos _ .” And there’s so much sass in the way he says it, so much confidence in his smug smirk, that Sergio gets  _ angry _ .

“You know?” He snarls, dropping ( _ throwing _ ) the clean tank top onto the bench. “You’re worse than Cris.”

Piqué’s smirk disappears, replaced by an expression of confusion. He blinks, then frowns, then blinks again. “I’m  _ what _ ?”

“You’re worse than Cris.” Sergio repeats, trying to not raise his voice too much, they don’t need to draw the team’s attention to their little...conversation. “‘I’m fine, Sergio’, ‘Mind your own business, Sergio’, ‘It’s just a knock, Sergio’.” He says mockingly, mimicking the words of his Madrid teammate. “The guy could have a fucking  _ hammer _ sticking out of his leg and he would still get angry when Zidane tries to sub him off five minutes before the end of some friendly. You’re both fucking  _ ridiculous _ .”

There are a few long moments of silence during which they just stare at each other, not moving, barely even breathing. Then Piqué bursts into laughter that shakes his whole body and, it seems, the entire room as well. People around them start sending confused glances their way, but Sergio chooses to ignore it.

“What?” He asks, annoyed, hand on his hip. “What’s so funny?”

“No, just-- I’m sorry, I-” It takes a few moments for the laughter to die down a bit until Piqué can speak normally. “You just compared me to Ronaldo, that’s both the funniest and the most offensive thing anybody’s ever told me.  _ Ronaldo _ .” He doubles over, hollering with laughter, and Sergio has to hit him painfully with the tank top a few times to make him stop.

“Asshole.” Sergio mutters under his breath, flopping down onto the bench and finally pulling the tank top on, followed by the jersey shirt. His inner timer is telling him that there aren’t that many minutes left until the end of the break.

“Seriously, though.” Piqué wipes away a tear with the back of his hand. He’s being all unnecessarily loud and big about it and for a moment Sergio considers taking the tank top off just to hit him again. “I’m infinitely flattered that you’re so worried about my well-being, but I’m fine, really. It’s nothing serious, just a bit of discomfort, it’ll go away soon.”

Sergio stares at him, eyes narrowed, not quite sure if he should believe it or not. But despite how childish and immature Piqué can be sometimes, he  _ is _ indeed an adult (they’re even the same age now, as of February 2nd) who can tell whene he’s in condition to play and when he’s not, and Sergio guesses it’s up to him to decide in the end.

“Fine.” He says finally. “But you’re still an asshole.”

Piqué rolls his eyes, but the disturbing seriousness that’s been colouring his face before is gone now, and Sergio feels relieved.

Lopetegui enters the dressing room, clapping loudly and telling them to get back to the pitch. Sergio waits for Piqué to put on his jersey and only then stands up and heads toward the tunnel.

 

-

 

The match ends well, 4-1 in their favour. The Israeli players don’t waste any time, hurrying to snatch the jerseys of their favourite players before one of their teammates does it for them. Geri feels a tap on his shoulder and when he turns around he finds himself facing one of Israel’s midfielders. The guy points at his own jersey, then at Geri’s red one, a universal football gesture everyone understands. Geri nods - he always enjoys jersey exchanges, there’s something very peaceful and calm about it.

Ramos, on the contrary, is the opposite of calm when he almost jumps on him from behind inside the tunnel, yelling “Dude” into his ear at the top of his lungs.

“I can hear, you know.” He says, trying to remove the other defender from his side. It’s an impossible task, Ramos can be unbelievably clingy and touchy when he’s in a good mood. Like right now.

“Isco!” The Sevillian yells, waving for the young midfielder to join them. “You should hang out with Piqué more.” He says, pulling him into a half-hug, half-headlock. “Gotta get used to him, since you’re gonna be playing for Barça now, huh?”

Isco makes an indignant noise at the back of his throat and Geri scoffs.

“These are just rumors.” Isco says, feeling the need to explain himself even though both him and Geri know Ramos is just joking. “Come on, if all Marca wrote was true Cris would be playing in China and Messi at U-20 France.”

Ramos lets out an unnecessarily loud laugh. “True.”

He’s distracted by Isco’s comment, and Geri uses that moment to untangle himself from the other’s crushing embrace. “I still can’t believe you took that free kick.” He says, elbowing Ramos in the ribs lightly. “What, scored a couple of goals for Madrid and now you think you’re a striker?”

Ramos turns to look at him, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together, while Isco laughs loudly. “Oh, don’t ask, Gerard.” He reaches a hand to run it through Ramos’ gelled hair. “Our captain is going through a crisis because he suddenly realised he picked the wrong position.” He says jokingly, looking at his teammate with the kind of expression you would look with at a child whose ice cream just fell to the floor.

“Oi, get lost, you two.” Ramos shoots sharply, but it’s mostly good-natured and there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “See?” He points an accusing finger at Isco. “You’re already turning into a culé.” He grimaces, sticking his tongue out in disgust. “Tragic.”

“Who’s turning into a culé?” It’s Jordi, popping up by Geri’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder and looking in Ramos’ and Isco’s direction curiously.

“Ramos.” Geri deadpans. “Ramos is turning into a culé.”

Ramos stops walking, mouth hanging open. “What?”

Geri can’t stop the smirk making its way up to his face. “He just confessed that his biggest dream is transferring to Barcelona. He’s been secretly trying to do it, but the board won’t accept him.”

Ramos opens his mouth and closes it a few times, eyes hilariously confused. “But I…. Never said that.” He says finally, his voice barely heard over the sound of Jordi’s hollering laughter. “Why would you say something like that? Why would you say that I said something I never said? What are you, Marca?” Jordi’s laughter gets even louder and he grips Geri’s shoulder to stay on his feet. Isco only chuckles in amusement at the three of them.

 

-

 

Some of them go out to celebrate after the match. True, it’s just a qualifier, but it’s nice to not think about the Champions League or La Liga for a change, and they only have one more game before they return to their clubs. Geri goes with the others, he always does, dragging a protesting Iniesta with him.

“Geri, you know I’m too old for these hang outs.” Andrés complains.

“Oh, puh-lease!” Geri retorts. “Ain’t nobody never too old for celebration parties. And moreover,” He adds meaningfully. “You aren’t  _ old _ . You’re the same age as Ronaldo.”

Andrés raises an eyebrow in amusement. “What does Ronaldo have to do with me in any way?”

Geri pouts. “But Andrés, Sergio said he won’t go, it’s just me and Jordi. We’ll be the only culés there!” He spreads his arms out to make it more dramatic, hoping it convinces the other to come with him. “If you’re not going, I’m going!”

Andrés smiles at him warmly, puts a hand on each of his shoulders. And despite their height difference of over twenty centimeters, Geri suddenly feels like the smaller one under his gaze. “Geri,” He says softly. “Go, have fun. This is about us being a  _ team _ , despite the differences. And moreover,” He adds. “I think Sergio wanted to talk to you.”

Geri frowns. “Yeah..Well, he already did. He said he won’t be going becau--”

“No.” Andrés cuts him off. “The  _ other  _ Sergio.”

Geri blinks. “What, Ramos?”

“Yeah.”

Geri frowns again, brows furrowed in confusion. He wants to ask why would Ramos want to talk to him but somehow his mouth ends up asking. “How do you know?”

Andrés smiles knowingly. “I just do.” He taps him on the shoulder encouragingly and then gives his chest a light push. “Now go.”

 

They go to some bar Koke knows. It’s a nice place, full of colourful lights and loud music, with an open veranda facing the sea. Geri doesn’t drink a lot, Ramos does, if him climbing onto one of the billiard boards to dance is anything to go by. Although, knowing Ramos he could do that even without drinking anything.

Geri sticks to Jordi, Vitolo and Silva, who are all gathered around a small table, playing card games and eating tapas.

“No, you gotta give me the card.” Jordi insists, pointing at one of the cards in Vitolo’s hands. The Sevillista simply frowns at his cards in confusion.

“Look, I’m not an expert on poker, but I’m pretty sure this is  _ not _ how poker works.”

Jordi buries his face in his hands. “For the hundredth time, man: this isn’t poker, this is  _ joker _ . The rules are different.”

While they’re busy arguing Geri puts down his own cards (he doesn’t have anything worthy anyway) and slowly sneaks away, heading toward the veranda. It’s empty when he opens and closes the glass doors behind him, not a single person in sight, everyone is inside. The air is chilly and salty because of the sea, but it feels refreshing in contrast to the atmosphere inside the bar.

Geri flops down on one of the large sofas, just looking at the view in front of him. It’s already dark, so the water is black instead of blue, the reflection of the moon dancing in it. A pretty sight. He doesn’t get to enjoy it for too long because suddenly the glass door slides open and someone enters the veranda.

Geri knows who it is even without turning around. There’s a loud thud, somebody bumping into one of the chairs, a whispered ‘fuck’ and then feet shuffling loudly toward the sofa he’s sitting on.

“Ayayay..” Ramos mumbles to himself, dropping down onto the white pillows next to him. There’s a tequila glass in his hand, decorated with a tiny red umbrella. “Hey.”

Geri supposes the last one is directed at him, so he replies with a brief “Hi” himself. Ramos fidgets until he finds a position that pleases him and sinks back onto the pillows. Geri keeps staring at the horizon determinedly, choosing to ignore the fact that Ramos is practically trying to make holes in him with his gaze.

After a while the other defender gets bored of just watching him and pushes himself up on his elbows. He moves closer to Geri, placing his head just next to his, and looks in the same direction, trying to figure out what captured the other’s attention. “What are you looking at?”

“The sea.” Geri replies shortly.

Ramos nods in understanding and leans back onto the back of the sofa. There’s finally a silence again, but it’s not long. “ _ Why _ are you looking at the sea?”

Geri is forced to turn his head and look at him. What kind of question is that? Is he not allowed to look at the sea anymore? “Because I want to.”

Ramos shrugs and redirects his gaze to the tequila glass. “Okay.” There’s silence again, but this time it lasts even less than before. “Want some tequila?”

Geri looks at him in irritation.  _ No, I don’t _ . “Yes.”

Ramos lets out a dramatic sigh. “Well, too bad, because I have no tequila. This is just lemon juice with some fancy sweet syrup.”

Geri blinks. Wait, what? “Why are you drinking lemon juice out of a tequila glass?”

Ramos looks up from the glass to meet his eyes. “Because I want to.” He deadpans, mimicking his answer from before. And then adds, “And also because drinking it from a  _ plastic  _ glass would make me look lame.”

Geri groans. “Oi, come on, I don’t believe you, give me that glass.” He reaches for it and Ramos doesn’t protest when he takes the glass from his hands and brings it to his lips. And almost chokes. “What  _ is _ this thing?”

“Lemon juice.” Ramos replies simply. “With some fancy sweet syrup.”

“Yeah, but why is it so sour?” He asks, looking at the glass in disgust and betrayal.

“Because it’s lemon juice.” Ramos drawls slowly. “With some fancy sweet syrup.”

Geri shakes his head and places the glass on the wooden floor, just next to the sofa. “Who’s the guy who gave you this thing? He must really hate you.”

“It was me. I made it. Myself.”

Geri snorts. “Well, congrats, you’re a horrible bartender.”

Neither of them says anything for the next few minutes. Ramos spends the time fidgeting impatiently and rolling around, trying to find a comfortable position, and Geri spends it wondering if he’s strong enough to throw him out into the sea and how much a drowned captain would affect their chances at the World Cup. Finally, he seems to settle down, lying on his back, head propped on a pillow.

“You know, this is nice.” He says, making a vague gesture with his hand. “I mean, international break.”

Geri hums in agreement. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“I gotta admit, I kind of missed this.”

“What, international break?”

“No.” Ramos says, then corrects himself. “I mean, yes, that too, but that’s not what I meant. I meant, you know. Playing with you on the same team and all that.”

That has Geri’s attention. He turns his head to the right, wondering if he misheard. “You missed playing with me?”

Ramos shrugs casually. “Yeah. You know, your, uh-” He pauses and Geri can tell that he’s struggling to find the right words. He’s speaking slowly, carefully, he’s entering a very dangerous territory, one they don’t frequently enter. “Um. You passes are, eh, not so bad.”

Geri stares at him for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. “Why, thank you, that’s so nice of you! I almost teared up from such a kind compliment!”

Ramos groans and tries to elbow him in the ribs. “Jerk, you know what I meant.”

“You aren’t so bad yourself,” Geri goes on teasing him. “When you do that thing where you kick the ball and it ends at my feet? Amazing. Iniesta and Xavi are dying to know how you do it.”

“Oi, come the fuck on.” Ramos lets out a frustrated groan, swatting at Geri’s shoulder. “You aren’t helping me, okay? I’m serious. It’s good having you on the team.” He gives a friendly punch to Geri’s left shoulder with his fist. “The second half? When you blocked that bald dude’s shot?” The description is so generic but somehow Geri knows exactly what moment he’s talking about. “I wasn’t going to show it on the outside but inside I was like...  _ Wow _ .”

Geri bites his lower lip. For the first time since the start of the conversation he doesn’t know what to say. It’s not even about the words themselves, it’s about how he says it, so straightforward and genuine. “I, um. Thanks. I guess.” He reaches a hand to rub the back of his neck, hating how he seems to be at a loss of words right now. “Well, I can say the same thing about you. The way you…” There are two ways to end this sentence. With his brain or with his heart. Geri goes with his heart. “...didn’t get a single yellow card through the whole match, that was sooo impressive. Even Andrés was in shock.”

Ramos rolls over to his stomach and buries his face in one of the pillows to stifle a scream. “Will you  _ ever  _ stop with these yellow card jokes?” He asks, turning his face to look at him.

“Never.” Geri replies honestly with a grin. “I’m serious too, though.” He adds after a moment, nudging Ramos’ forearm to gain his attention again. “You’re… You’re a great defender, Sergio. And a good captain.”

Ramos smirks. “Thanks, I know.”

Geri clicks his tongue, dropping a few curses under his breath. He grabs a pillow, hitting the other’s head with it. “Ronaldo is having a bad effect on you. You’re turning into an arrogant striker with too much gel in his hair.”

Ramos holds an arm up to stop the blow. “Hey, that’s not true!” He retorts. “I mean, by this logic Messi is supposed to be having some kind of effect on  _ you _ , but I can’t see you becoming all humble and nice. If anything,” He points a finger at his chest. “It’s  _ you _ ruining  _ Messi _ . What’s with that beard, man.”

Geri throws his arms up in the air. “Don’t ask me about the beard. We all think it’s horrible, and I’m pretty sure Antonella doesn’t like it either, but he just won’t shave it for some reason.”

They fall into a silence again, except this time Ramos doesn't fidget every two seconds and Geri doesn't feel like pushing him into the sea.

Suddenly, Ramos grabs his shoulder and pulls him down onto his back, next to him. “See that group of stars?” He points at a part of the sky. “That’s the Big Dipper. And this one,” He points at another group. “Is the Small Dipper. And  _ that  _ one,” His finger moves slightly to the left, where the amount of stars is especially big. “Is us winning La Liga this season.”

Geri makes a choking noise at the back of his throat. “You little fuc--”

His words are cut short by the screech of the glass doors behind them. There’s the sound of muffled music, and then too hushed voices, laughing and talking with each other. Ramos’ eyes widen. “Fuck, that’s Álvaro and Isco.” And before Geri can ask why is it “ _ Fuck _ , that’s Álvaro and Isco” and not “ _ Yay _ , that’s Álvaro and Isco” Ramos grabs his arm firmly and rolls off the sofa, pulling Geri with himself. “Quick, under the sofa.” He whispers in a low voice, sliding into the space between the wooden floor and the sofa. Geri doesn’t get why they’re supposed to be hiding, but does the same thing anyway.

“Sergio, why are we--”

“Shh!” Ramos clasps a hand over his mouth, pressing the index finger of his other hand to his lips. “I wanna hear what they’re saying.”

They can only see their feet as Isco and Morata walk over to the edge of the veranda and lean against the railing, looking at the sea.

“Me and Marcelo made a bet.” Ramos explains in a hushed voice. “I said they’re fucking, he said they aren’t. Whoever loses has to host the team parties for the next three months. Now shut up, please, they'll hear us.”

Geri is kind of stunned by the information he just received, but also not really surprised. He pushes Ramos’ hand away from his mouth but doesn’t say anything, staying silent. They watch the two young players have a discussion, even if they can’t make out the exact words. Morata jumps up onto the railing and tells Isco some kind of story excitedly, the latter listening to him carefully. Then he jumps off the railing suddenly and they both head toward the sofa him and Ramos are hiding under.

“Fuck, this was unplanned.”

Geri can feel the material of the sofa sinking, the space becoming even the smaller. This was such a bad idea, anything that has Sergio Ramos in it is a bad idea.

Isco and Morata aren’t talking anymore, the air is filled with silence, except for the occasional rustle of clothes and pillows. There’s movement, they can both feel it, and then a series of strange sounds he can’t quite identify. It’s almost like..

Geri’s eyes grow wide. He turns to Ramos, a horrified expression on his face. “Are they  _ kissing? _ ” He mouths soundlessly. Ramos looks just as horrified as him but also endlessly pleased with himself. It doesn’t sit well with Geri. “Dude, this is wrong.” He whispers.

“Shhh, Geri, please--”

“We can’t just stay here the whole time.”

“Shut up, they will--”

“Sergio, what if they start  _ fucking? _ Will we just--”

“They  _ won’t _ , this is a public place, now will you pleas--”

“Did you even think before doing this whole--”

“I said  _ shut it _ , you big--”

Ramos’ knee accidentally hits his side and Geri jerks up, only to hit his head on the hard material of the sofa above them. “ _ Fuck _ .”

Morata and Isco jump apart with a yelp, startled by the loud noise. Isco loses his balance and falls of the sofa.

“What the  _ fuck _ was that?”

Geri sees it as their cue to come out of their hiding place. He crawls out from under the sofa, ignoring Ramos’ protests. Isco and Morata both stare at him, eyes wide, mouths open, unable to move or say anything.

“Isco..” Morata whispers hoarsely. “Please tell me I’m not the only one seeing a Piqué crawl from under the sofa?”

Isco shakes his head slowly. “No… You aren’t..”

That’s when Ramos decides to give in as well. “Fucking hell, Piqué.” He complains, getting up to his feet slowly. “You ruined it.”

They both look at Isco, who just keeps staring at the two of them from the floor, and then switch their gaze to Morata. The forward looks embarrassed for a moment, cheeks painted red, before he recoils, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Wait. What exactly were you two doing over there?” He looks almost angry, and Geri would’ve felt bad for him, if not for the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

“Oh god.” Isco covers his mouth with his hands, eyes wide in horror. “Were you fucking?”

Him and Ramos both almost choke on air at that question. “ _ What? _ ”

“No!” Ramos hurries to deny the accusation. “We were just…” He looks up at Geri for help, receiving none. “...looking at the, uh, at the sea and at the um. At the stars.”

Morata glares at them, making it very clear that he’s not buying it. “From under the sofa?”

Geri nods slowly, then nods again, more confidently this time. “Yes. From under the sofa.”

“Guys..” Isco speaks up quietly. “Let’s just..forget about this, okay?”

Him and Ramos exchange a glance.

Geri exhales in relief. “Yes. Let’s forget about it.”

**Author's Note:**

> watching these two train and play together makes me want to stay up until 5am to write fanfics


End file.
